


Touching Down

by Niler



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 13:04:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17867795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niler/pseuds/Niler
Summary: A guy walks in to a bar...





	Touching Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Reckless_Serenade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reckless_Serenade/gifts).



> Surprise biatch!
> 
> Did you really think I wouldn't? Also congrats on being the founding/sole member of the Watt fandom :P :P

Touching Down

 

 

 

 

That’s the bad thing about being good at his job – he gets sent to places like fucking Bristol like it’s a bloody reward or something.

Office memo: being sent to Bristol is not, will never be a fucking reward!

Still, at least the assignment itself is easy, because being stuck in Bristol and having a fucking hard time with the job, too?

While the accent’s a joke, the people aren’t bad. Architecture’s better than anything he sees on a daily back home. (Yes, he appreciates good architecture, big fucking deal. Just because he didn’t go to some stuck up university, doesn’t mean he isn’t educated, doesn’t mean he can’t have refined tastes.

People hear the accent and immediately relegate you to the uneducated thicko pile. 

Well, that’s their loss, not his problem.)

It’s the best thing about being stuck here to be honest – ‘sightseeing’ – though, to be fair, the only thing worth sighting in Bristol is the architecture (plus the occasional hottie).

That does _not_ mean he’s either happy or content, simply that he’s determined to make the best of a bad situation, because say what you like about him on a personal level there’s very little you can say about his ability and willingness to fucking _adapt_.

Take now, for instance – voluntarily becoming a patron of an establishment which functions as the city’s one and only gay bar.

Well, to be fair, that they even _have_ one is a big surprise (the place is so backward he’s still a little astonished not to see evidence of public floggings in the town square on a daily).

Or maybe, just maybe his perception is a little out of whack, dissatisfied as he is with the forced relocation and attendant boredom he’s been experiencing this past week.

God knows it’s boredom that’s led him to this particular bar tonight; there really is only so much mind numbing reality TV a guy can watch before going out of his fucking mind and he’d been on the edge – teetering on the brink.

He isn’t exactly looking for sex; though that would certainly help with the boredom. What he’s after is _entertainment_ ; something to break up the monotony.

Doesn’t really know why he’s chosen a gay bar though – men are generally far less entertaining than women when it comes to the chase since guys tend not to waste time playing the game, and playing the game is what he values most, most of the time.

But somehow the company of women doesn’t appeal right now.

Perhaps he can entertain himself playing hard to get, watch the guys get all twisted up trying to keep up, or more likely, fathom out his game.

God knows he has to do _something_ to entertain himself right now.

Obviously he’s aware that being bored out of his skull has historically landed him in hot water many a time, but at this point really doesn’t give a toss.

Dying of boredom is definitely not preferable.

 

 

**

 

Standard fucking set-up – big surprise – although, to be fair, there aren’t any severed bull penises or lovingly rendered portraits of sheep on the wall, which has to be taken as a good sign.  The crowd, though, and the fucking _music_!

He doesn’t even have refined taste when it comes to music, but this piece-of-shit tracklisting makes him feel like a bloody Mozart aficionado.

But at least they’re trying to make it not _look_ like a gay bar, though, saying that, opting for the trashy heterosexual watering hole du jour wouldn’t be his first choice either.

Still, what does he know? Left up to him the only people likely to frequent any bar _he_ owned would be sports mad yobbos (probably straight sports mad yobbos at that) and he can’t say he’d appreciate that any better.

Of course if he wasn’t so bored and thus inclined to give in to the whiny little bitch inside none of this would even be an issue.

Maybe getting a couple of drinks down his neck at this point would be a bloody good idea…

The place is crowded, which would, of course, have to be the frigging understatement of the year.

Seems that if there’s only one fucking gay bar in the entirety of the county then yeah you’re gonna get a bunch of bitchy queens trying to stop you finding salvation in a stiff rum and coke or three.

He has no problem pushing guys out his way, even if they’re slathered in foundation, smell sweet as a whore’s boudoir; he does, after all, know the fucking difference between a bloke and a woman!

The most aggressive guy he’s ever been with wore eyeliner, flapped his hands like he was practicing for a star turn as a ceiling fan, had a voice high enough in pitch to make dogs sit up and wince, yet when he got you naked and alone refused to let up till he fucked you into oblivion.

Well, he’d _tried_ it, but since Matt hadn’t liked him nearly enough for that to ever happen the encounter had ended in a scuffle with the guy kicking him out on his ear- half dressed, a little bruised, virtue well and truly intact.

Ever since then, however, he’d find himself warily eyeing every camp guy he encountered, reminded to never again somehow overlook the fact he was dealing with a _man_.

Guys – such a pain.

No, really.

Women were a monumental pain but women he knew how to handle – men were a different kettle of fish altogether.

See, women knew they were going to be fucked and unless you signaled otherwise they didn’t get to thinking they’d be pegging you anytime soon. Even the dominant ones expected to be the one getting fucked – most of the time (until you were in a relationship).

Men? Not so much.

Sometimes _he_ expected to be the one on top, despite you doing everything you knew how to make it clear _you_ were going to be providing the topping on this occasion.

And then there were those times you just wanted head and they’d be face down on the bed before you could say ‘Hi’.

Of course that tended to happen more with women than with men, and while he could understand it with women (most women he’d known weren’t too keen on giving blowjobs, much preferred lying back and thinking of England while _you_ did all the fucking work) couldn’t with men.

For the most part he much preferred going down than getting fucked.

It wasn’t even that he didn’t enjoy getting fucked, but the process and the time it took to get to the good bits?

Well, everyone and their granny knew he wasn’t a patient man…

Funny how, whenever he’s surrounded by men his thoughts turn to sex.

And sex is always, always interesting – even when it’s shit (the reason for it being shit is _always_ of interest).

But he isn’t exactly looking for sex tonight.

He’s bored, that’s all, and wants to be entertained, even if he has to pretty much manufacture said entertainment himself.

But a couple of stiff drinks under the belt will definitely take the edge off the boredom. Well, hopefully; no guarantees in this backwater: they probably have non alcoholic alcohol! Would not surprise him in the least!

When he finally pushes his way to the front of the bar he finds himself almost immediately drowning in the mélange of several varieties of cologne, and that’s not something he appreciates since the scent of cologne brings hot nights and even hotter sex to mind, and he honestly doesn’t want to be in that headspace right now.

Yet the primitive part of his brain and gut helplessly react to the scent and he can _feel_ himself switching up.

He’d like to be the one in control, of course, but accepts that until and unless he can separate himself from that goddamn scent he likely will pretty much allow his dick to run the show.

And his dick is not the brightest fucking bulb on the tree, which is definitely the understatement of the fucking year.

His dick is a _dick_ – a pretty dumb and obnoxious one at that.

Well, no point sugar coating the facts.

But if he can grab the drinks, get as far away from that scent as possible he’ll be golden…

“What can I get you?” The bartender’s female, which is a surprise – the places he tends to frequent often have a strict no women policy, no clue why; not like any of the guys are going to run off with her, and if they did, surely that would have to be a bullet dodged kinda deal.

But in any case, if you’re really that paranoid, why not simply employ gay women?

He personally feels women bring something different to the scene - and he likes that - so goes into automatic flirtation mode, because even gay women (with some notable exceptions – he has direct experience of what the phrase ‘fights like a girl’ actually means) respond to charm and flattery.

She’s gay; he can tell by the deadness in her gaze as she weighs up the merits of telling him to go fuck himself against the merits of keeping her job.

The job wins out, but not by much.

Either he’s losing his charm or…

Oh of course; he’s forgetting where he is.

Obviously it’s got to be even tougher being a lesbian in this backwater, so he’ll generously cut her some slack.

“That’s the dearest drink on the menu,” she informs with no discernible expression in her voice; she appears to simply be imparting information, not trying to either save his coins or save him from red-faced humiliation or anything.

Clearly she could care less if he bankrupts himself or is made a laughing stock.

Also clear is that she’s neither impressed by nor particularly interested in men, plus the job is probably boring as fuck, its only merit the fact that she’s at least safe from the chore of constantly having to deflect drunken passes or witnessing guys trying to run lines on her.

Oh wait…

“No problem.” He smiles his 3rd most charming smile and waits for her to fill his order.

She gives him the dead-eyed stare of the lesbian would be assassin and turns away.

He tries not to watch her, but she has an impressive, athletic build and he finds himself idly wondering if she could bench press him into oblivion – just for the sheer joy of besting a bloke.

She definitely seems the type.

He remembers the first time he encountered a femme lesbian – all lipstick, tits and ass and a disdain for men that was scary as fuck. Scary because he simply, try as he might, could not get his head around the notion that a woman who looked like that, who looked no different from any woman he’d take home for the night would stick a knife between his ribs rather than have him stray within an inch of her.

Mind you, he’s met plenty of straight women who probably felt the same way – difference being they weren’t eating pussy on a regular. They did fuck men but almost seemed to _resent_ that they did, that they had to.

Women were a bunch of psychos when you really stopped to think about it, which is something they seemed to have in common with quite a few of the guys he’s slept with...

Oh the stories he could tell.

There’s movement beside him – someone new coming to the bar and because that’s what you do – check for talent – he scopes him from the corner of his eye.

First of all he’s black, second he smells good, third, from this angle, he looks just like…

He turns to get a proper look and nearly swallows his tongue.

Either that’s B.L. Harper standing next to him at a gay bar in Bristol, England, UK, or he’s losing his mind.

It’s probably the latter, because the former is just ridiculous.

First, it’s a gay bar in Bristol.

Second it’s a fucking gay bar in Bristol!

He tears his eyes away, because you just don’t do that – ogle someone unless it’s with intent and obviously nothing’s at that point yet.

Obviously even if he _isn’t_ B.L. Harper Matt’s gonna be interested, but you can’t just dive in; gotta come with a bit more finesse than that!

He’s been rocked off his game, though, because if it’s B.L. Harper (which it can’t be) or just a look-a-like he is wholly unprepared, has no clue how to run this particular game.

Okay, yeah, he’s fantasised about… stuff… Who hasn’t though, who wouldn’t have if they had B.L. Harper as an idol? But that doesn’t mean he’s at all prepared to deal with the reality or even the semi reality of this actually _happening_.

“£11.37.” The bartender places the drink before him, an expectant look on her face.

His first thought is: ‘what the fuck is the 37 for?’ Does it somehow soften the blow because you’re expected to think: ‘oh look it’s a whole 63 pence less than £12’? Or make it seem comfortingly classy because it’s a whole 37p more than the standard £11?

“Great, thanks. Keep the change.” He hands her £10 plus 1.50 in coins and when their eyes meet and hold, beams the 2nd most charming smile at her.

He decides here and then that if he comes back to the bar later he’ll be sure to find a different bartender to serve him because he knows for sure she’ll slip something into his drink next time, and it almost certainly won’t be a olive.

What has he done to earn such hostility?

“Isn’t that like $20 or something? That’s a real expensive drink there, homie.”

Okay, he’s really off his game because here he is just standing there gawping at him like a stunned mullet. Meanwhile his heart’s fucking galloping, not only at being addressed at all, but he just called him ‘homie’ and his fucking accent and the timbre of his voice is about to drop him stone dead on the floor…

He can’t see his eyes really well – mainly because he can’t bring himself to meet them – but he can tell they’re even more stunning than they appear in images.

The way he’s dressed, the way he looks – all of it is about to give him a heart attack and he has never, in his entire life, been so taken aback by another person.

He has had a crush on this guy for the longest time, but it was more the admiration and respect kind of crush, the ‘wow he’s amazingly talented’ kind of deal.

This though, this has nothing to do with any of that.

Matt knows Harper’s good-looking – killer combo of the contrasting light and dark browns of eyes and complexion – plus the amazing physique – but in person he’s stunning.

And he is staring at Matt’s mouth…

Damn.

He takes refuge in his glass, surprised he doesn’t make a fool of himself by coughing up his lungs when it goes down the wrong hole.

It doesn’t go down the wrong hole – he just expects it to.

B.L. Harper, because clearly it is him, crazy as that might seem, is waiting on him, patiently waiting for him to get with the programme and respond.

It’s crazy, because he is _good_ at this.

He’s _really_ good at this…

“This is nothing; remind me to tell you about the time I paid £50 for a martini.”

Harper smiles and once again, the in person effect is stunning, but the look in his eye says he didn’t miss the ‘remind me to tell you’ part and finds Matt’s gaming quite amusing.

“Was it a good martini?”

Matt grins, feeling a little less uncomfortable as the instincts automatically kick in. “It was.”

“Money well spent?”

Matt’s grin gets wider, conspiratorial. “Definitely.”

“Do you think I’d like that martini too, or is it an acquired taste?”

As come ons go this is pretty sophisticated.

Now, they’re in a gay bar, so there can be no doubts as to who is gay or straight, so he’s not feeling him out for that – maybe asking if he’s into black guys? Letting him know he’s interested?

Well, maybe, if he has to ask, Matt _isn’t_ quite on his game yet.

And Harper’s not acting like he knows Matt recognises him.

Hell, it’s a gay bar in Bristol; the chances of anyone recognising an American football superstar who isn’t white or a quarterback is maybe zero - or less.

“No way of knowing – maybe order a drink and show me what you got.”

This elicits a huff of amusement from Harper but he confidently signals to the bartender. “Any chance of mixing me a martini – shaken, not stirred?” He looks at Matt and grins.

The bartender rolls her eyes and turns to fill his order.

“You ever had a martini before?” Matt has to ask because that £50 martini was the first and last for him.

Harper shrugs. “I’m guessing so. Not much of a connoisseur when it comes to liquor, I just drink what they put in front of me cos I’m the kind of guy who _likes_ to try out new things.”  He gives him a pointed look, which is so sexy, Matt has no idea why he hasn’t burst into flames, though the flame that’s blooming on his cheeks may be an indication it’s coming.

“Same here. Not gone too far wrong so far.” That is a blatant lie of course, but honesty is not part of this game – that’ll come later.

“Hmm,” he says, somewhere between “yeah, right” and “keep singing this tune – I like it”.

It’s pretty clear that whatever game he tries to run on Harper will be observed, probably assessed but won’t be called out – until later.

It’s never been quite like that before, which makes him simultaneously nervous and just a little excited.

Is it too late to admit he recognizes him? Harper’s probably interpreted his gaping surprise at his presence as the usual ‘white man is startled to find man of colour in a backwoods drinking establishment’ rather than ‘the fuck is B.L Harper doing in a backwoods gay bar in Bristol when I didn’t even know Americans could find the UK on a fucking map?’ so that’s okay – for now.

The vibe between them is definitely ‘I’m feeling you’ and in the past that would have been all he’d need to go there, but this is different; this is definitely different.

Trouble is he just doesn’t really understand _why_ it’s different.

He has the advantage of knowing Harper (well, certainly knowing him better than Harper knows Matt), so from his perspective the urge to sleep with him is not really so shallow.

Harper, on the other hand…

Is he looking for a quick fuck; maybe the first time with a white guy; the first time with someone in another country?

Unless, of course, he habitually picks up guys in foreign countries.

Maybe this is what he does.

Matt finds the thought quite intriguing, and the fact that he’s managed to keep all of this under wraps?

But then, Harper’s always been pretty private; only has a Facebook Fan page (clearly run by a social media manager), and has thus far avoided too much intrusion into his personal life.

Matt had, at one time, got a notion that he might be attracted to guys but nothing that could really be substantiated. Since it really was just a vibe he’d not pursued it as a real solid fact – not even close – yet had played around with it in his head at times, _wanting_ it to be true, basing some very serious and satisfying scenarios on it being true.

Not a single one of the fantasies had featured B.L Harper in a gay bar.

Heck, Fantasy B.L never even stepped foot on British soil, all the action taking place in the US (since Matt was unable to imagine him anywhere else).

But, seriously, if Harper wants to fuck him into the middle of next week before returning home is he really going to say no?

Apparently not since the question has been asked and he is clearly answering.

Well, that was easy.

The bartender makes a production of handing Harper his drink, snagging Matt’s attention before saying, with a wholly unnecessary sneer: “On the house.”

“Thank you ma’am. Appreciate it.” He raises his glass to her.

Matt says not one word.  If she’s willing to pay out of her own pocket just to make a point, just to spite him, well that’s up to her. He’s definitely got under her skin though.

Had he fucked her in the past? Had _he_ been responsible for her turning gay? But no, she’d be thanking him rather than dissing him if that were the case.  No, he’d clearly rubbed her the wrong way and now she’s daggers drawn for him.

Fuck, all he’d done was smile at her…

“You wanna get a table? I prefer to sit when I’m drinking.” Harper’s gesturing to the upper floor, fully expecting Matt to agree with him, and for a millisecond he considers confounding expectations and saying no, he’d rather stay at the bar, but he’s already figured out that playing games with this guy will be a tough ask and since he can’t run the risk of losing him at this early stage, takes a sip of his overpriced drink and indicates for him to lead the way.

 

**

 

Upstairs is definitely quieter, given over to those who prefer to watch, talk perhaps, get to know one another a little better.

It’s a fairly classy establishment so there aren’t any dark corners where intimacy might be taken to the next level, but there is a marked difference in the vibe up here and he feels a familiar tingle as he follows Harper to a group of small tables near the back of the space – balcony, really, taking up pretty much all of the upper floor.  He hadn’t noticed any of this before, too pissed off to truly examine the place.

He sees that Harper’s not chosen this table by chance – he has a jacket slung carelessly over the back of a chair and there are a few empty glasses on the table, indicating that he may have been there for a while.

Oh.

So is this his first time here or is he a regular?

Is that why his drink had been on the house?

Do the staff know who he is?

Could be; not all guys were that ignorant, not all gay guys evinced little to no knowledge of or interest in sport.

And there was a chance this not very crowded area’s reserved for ViPs – of whatever stripe.

Okay.

“Hey, homie, you gonna hurt yourself.” He’s saying this from his seat, looking up at Matt with a sort of amused faux exasperation. “You one of these guys who wanna second guess every little thing instead of just going for it? Sit down, drink your $20 whisky and let’s get to know each other better. Deal?”

As chat up lines went clearly Harper wasn’t interested in softening him up, the opposite if anything.

Clearly they employed very different techniques – unless Harper’s so good he knows exactly what to say to whoever’s in front of him.

Maybe he knows Matt wants him to be assertive, wants to be pushed around a little.

Idly, as he silently does as he’s told, he wonders if Harper will also instinctually know when it’s time to pull it back a bit.

Everything he’s seen so far leads him to believe that Harper will know exactly how to play him.

It’s crazy how much this thought arouses him, but then being dominated by B.L Harper did feature quite prominently in the list of fantasy scenarios, so he really shouldn’t be _that_ surprised.

Still it had just been a fantasy – he doesn’t get off on being dominated, thus the fantasy – but apparently there’s more truth to this particularly fantasy than he’d realised.

“Well, that escalated quickly,” he observes, watching him over the rim as he takes another sip from his glass.

Harper rewards him with a genuinely amused chuckle followed by that smile, the smile that changes his entire demeanour, allowing you to see the real person behind the good looks and sophistication. Matt imagines it’s something you’d never tire of, no matter how many times in a day you saw it, wonders if there’s ever been anyone, if there’s anyone right now, back home, who’s had that privilege.

“I speak my mind – tend to, when I’m with people I like.”

Oh, he is _good_ , got to hand that to him.

Matt hands it to him with a wry smile and slight incline of the head, but doesn’t take up the conversational gambit. If Harper wants to get to know him better then the ball’s in his court.

 

 

**

 

“Saw you when you came in. I noticed you cos you looked like you were looking to beat some niggas’ ass.”

This startles a laugh out of him. “I thought I was just looking bored and disinterested.”

“Which comes across as wanting to beat someone’s ass,” he confirms. “You were looking round, like you were looking for some trouble to get into. You also looked like some straight dude who’d accidentally taken a wrong turn.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Harper laughs. “I can see that.” He cocks his head to one side, gives him a penetrating stare. “And are you?”

Mat smiles. “I used to think so.”

And that apparently is good enough for Harper because he certainly doesn’t pursue this the way another guy might have.

“You were the most interesting thing I’d seen so far so I thought I’d go satisfy my curiosity.”

“Dangerous impulse.”

“Are you?” His voice has dropped to a low, sultry rumble that connects with whatever brain cells govern impulse control and shorts them out.

“Yeah,” he says and waits for him to make the next move.

 

**

 

Harper is on a whole other level of smooth because he does everything Matt expects him to do right up till the moment he changes the script.

They talk for a little while longer until Harper, after a protracted moment of silently staring into each other’s eyes, the words put to one side as an irrelevancy, asks if he’s ready to leave.

He expects, when Harper excuses himself to make a call that it’ll be an Uber or a conventional taxi service greeting them at the door. It’s not, it’s a luxury sedan with its own driver, all pale leather and soundproof partition, and Matt can’t help wondering if this will be the closest he’ll ever get to the luxury lifestyle.

If it is then he’s going to bloody well savour it for all he’s worth!

He doesn’t know why but he’d fully expected Harper to want to go back to his place, so when he asks Matt where he’s staying he’s surprised, but okay with it.

They don’t say much in the car, both intent on admiring the city as they cruise their way to Matt’s hotel a mile or so outside the centre.

Matt doesn’t make a habit of bringing pickups back to his place whether he’s in his home town or the back of beyond, but obviously he’ll make an exception for B.L Harper.

It’s a hotel, which means housekeeping will ensure the room will be in order, so no worries there.

Still a little nerve wracking having B.L Harper in his room.

Has to make it good, memorable, enjoyable.

Outside of that he’s a blank.

Talking to him like they’d known each other for years is one thing, fucking him quite another.

He’s good at sex – he knows he is, isn’t usually worried about that aspect at all – but this is a guy he places in a totally different category to any of the guys he’s ever slept with and all the confidence born of years of successfully navigating the sometimes tricky sexual waters is minute by minute simply trickling away.

“Nice town – small and cosy.”

Matt turns to look at him, but he’s staring out the window. “You like it here?”

“Sure.” He turns to look at him. “You don’t?”

A shrug. “Not my home town.”

This piques his interest. “Yeah, I noticed the accent. Where you from?”

“Trust me, you wouldn’t know it-“

“Birmingham?” He pronounces it in the way Americans pronounce those town names like the ‘ham’ is a separate sound, which Matt hadn’t found sweet until now. “I know that cos you sound just like the guys from Peaky Blinders.” He laughs at Matt’s expression. “What’s more surprising; that I watch Peaky Blinders or that I can place your accent?”

“Er, both? You watch Peaky Blinders?”

And this just makes Harper crack up, conveniently allowing him to avoid answering the question.

 

**

 

“Here we go.” He makes to open the door, expecting Harper to say something about giving him a moment to give the driver instructions.

He says nothing of the sort.

Taking his phone from his pocket he hands it to Matt. “Put your number in,” he says, taking a sort of data pad from his inside pocket and pressing some buttons.

Dumbly, a little confused, Matt does as instructed, handing it back to him when he’s finished.

“I’ll be heading back home in a couple of weeks, but I’m leaving Bristol next Thursday. Will you be free for dinner before then?”

Matt’s in a daze, answers from within that daze. “Of course.”

“Great. I’ll give you a call.” He puts his phone back in his pocket. “Thanks for your company, tonight, homie. Speak to you soon.”

“Likewise.” He gets out of the car with as much grace as he can muster, not sure whether to be excited or crushingly disappointed, watching as Harper faces forward as the driver smoothly glides away from the kerb and off into the flow of traffic.

What the fuck just happened?

 

**

 

It can’t be a rejection if the guy says he wants to have dinner with you.

It’s not a rejection.

But he has lost count of the number of times he’s pulled that self same trick just to get out of sleeping with someone he lost interest in as the night progressed.

And that could certainly have been the case; Harper hadn’t really tried to converse with him in the car, had he? Matt had chalked that up to sexual tension – which had certainly been what he’d been experiencing.

Had Harper’s silence been due to him trying to come up with an easy let down?

Damn it. He hates his sort of bellyaching introspection – that’s Liam’s province, and the thing is he’s always slated the guy for living inside his head too much, so he won’t. What he’ll do is take Harper at his word and expect a call.  If it never comes then at least he can always say that B.L Harper picked him up in a bar and was attracted enough to him to think about going there.

Maybe in time that’ll be enough.

 

**

 

He spent most of the night awake, telling himself he wasn’t being stupidly introspective, but regardless of the cause unable to coax sleep to him, so being woken by the ringing of his phone was unwelcome to say the least. He grabs it, sees the display of an unknown number, and is briefly tempted to terminate the call, but he only does that when he knows the origin of the call so answers it. “It’s stupid 0 clock in the morning so whoever you are and whatever you want it had better be really fucking important!”

There’s a brief silence on the line before Harper says: “Nigga, you kiss your momma with that mouth?”

Matt jerks to an upright position, heart racing. “Dude, why so early though?” he demands, trying to inject a conciliatory note into his sleep croaky voice. “It’s barely…oh.” The clock is telling him it’s 10:30.

Why does it feel like he barely closed his eyes?

“You’re not in the market for lunch then.” There’s a tease in voice.

“How long do I have?”

“You got one whole hour, homie. Dress casual.” Without further ceremony Harper ends the call.

For one entire minute Matt lays there grinning, just grinning; no thoughts in his head, simply grinning.

Then he leaps to his feet, wondering why the need to dress casually, also what precisely Harper means by that…

 

**

 

Judging by the admiring once over his idea of casual and Harper’s idea of casual match.

“Hey, looking good, homie.”

“You said casual – casual I can do,” he says as he slides into the back of the car.

Harper snorts as he shifts a little to give him more room. “Still look like an Abercrombie model, though.”

“You make that sound like a bad thing.”

Harper makes a face. “Could be. Depends what you do with it.”

“It?”

“The good looks, homie. Some guys don’t know how to be classy with it is all I’m saying.”

“Well, no-one’s ever called me classy, but I hope I don’t come across that way to everybody.”  Truth is he doesn’t give a rat’s arse how he comes across to everybody – only to Harper. And he doesn’t think Harper’s seriously saying he sees him that way, just saying (reading between the lines) that he’s been burned by good looking guys in the past. Well the only heat Matt intends to bring his way is in the bedroom – if Harper’s even in the market for that kind of thing. At the moment Matt really isn’t sure _what_ he’s after.

“You come off pretty classy to me.”

Matt smiles, not really knowing how to handle the look in his eye, the blatant interest.

He’s interested, that’s clear, so why is he not going for it? Why back off the way he did?

If his goal is to have Matt off balance then congratulations; goal achieved.

Now what?

“You got a good head for liquor, I see that.” Harper’s grinning, almost a secret kind of thing, like there’s a joke he isn’t quite ready to share.

“Why do you say that?” he asks, instead of what he really wants to ask, which would be more on the lines of: ‘how the fuck do you know that?’ because he says it like he has no doubt his words are the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

“Your face, your eyes.” He hasn’t taken his eyes off Matt for a second. “You’re still pretty,” he says as though this explains everything. “I get the feeling you’d still be pretty first thing in the morning, homie.”

Matt wonders if he’ll ever tell Harper his name if not knowing his name means Harper will continue calling him homie in the way he does. He understands that calling him ‘nigga’ and ‘homie’ means something and he isn’t sure if Harper expects him to get that or whether he’s just doing it and not giving a fuck whether Matt gets it or not.

He definitely thinks it’s the former because there is something about the way they interact that’s just effortless, like they’ve known each other on an intimate basis for years; like he knows Matt will instinctively understand these things.

He remembers how it was when he and Liam first met, how long it took to get to that place of familiarity (though he’d also had that same sense of knowing the guy for yonks). Liam, though, is nothing like Harper, made Matt really work for the friendship.

Dickhead.

He smiles fondly in remembrance of Liam back then. He’d been such an awkward duck, no sense at all of his charm, his charisma, wasting it all on bitchy girls and over confident bozos who made it seem like they were doing him a favour being his friend.

He isn’t much better now, still no idea how attractive he is, what a catch he is. He’s getting there, though, even if it’s still like pulling teeth at times.

“Don’t act shy.” He’s using the bedroom voice again, inspiring the sort of visceral image which’d bring colour to even a porn star’s jaded cheeks. “You are not that guy, baby.”

Matt dares to look at him, a little taken aback to see that Harper’s not looking at his mouth but directly into his eyes. “How come you think you know me so well?” Any other time, with anyone else that would come across as somewhat aggrieved, a little peeved. In this instance Matt’s fairly sure that the only thing being conveyed is the desperate plea to ‘fuck me now’. Oh well, can’t get it right all the time.

“I don’t.” He doesn’t even try to make that sound convincing, deliberately turning his stare on Matt’s mouth now.

Matt’s fully aware he’s being reeled in and in a way that isn’t even _meant_ to be subtle.

What he can’t believe is just how well it’s working on him.

He isn’t the one who gets seduced.

He’s the smooth operator, the guy with _all_ the moves.

And it isn’t even because Harper is Harper - famous and an idol – he’s just got it. In spades.

How the fuck is he still single? Matt would have been making plans to rope and tie him the minute he got him over the threshold that first night.

Of course the guy could be an absolute nightmare as a human being, but Matt doubts that, therefore his single state has to be tied to his sexuality; how impossible it is to be gay and play any type of pro sport at a higher level.

And really that’s pretty sad.

So, why not make his brief foray into the forbidden, the denied at least _memorable_?

Clearly that’s what Harper’s after – a memorable encounter – and Matt’s confident this is something he can definitely supply.

 

**

 

Harper’s staying some distance outside the centre in what Matt initially takes to be a luxury hotel. Well, on one hand it could be seen as such, but as time goes on he sees it’s more of a private home where guests are waited on, catered to, have the run of the establishment.

A rich man’s haven in other words.

The most breathtaking thing about the entire experience is the way Harper takes it for granted.

That, to Mat’s surprise, proves to be a major turn on.

Now, Matt’s never made any secret of the fact that he likes nice things, makes a point of buying the best he can afford at all times, but he’s never had a gold digger mentality, always expecting to come by his wealth through sheer graft and shrewd decisions, wise and timely investment.

Being around Harper makes him fantasise about being a kept man.

This is a lifestyle he could definitely get used to and regardless of what Harper might think of gold diggers back home, when he’s living his real life, it’s clear that he intends to go all out here and now, whether in a bid to impress Matt or simply because that’s his nature.

Matt'll take it either way.

Harper’s led him to a dining area at the back of the establishment overlooking gardens that seem to blend with the natural flora of the countryside.

Who knew Bristol was this pretty?

Late spring early summer’s always been his favourite time of the year mostly because of views like this.

“Nice,” he says, knowing there’s little need to say more.

“Yeah, real pretty.” He’s smiling a private kind of smile.  “I grew up thinking all of the UK was like this.”

Matt snorts. “Rude awakening, right?”

Harper chuckles. “Once you reach a certain age, homie, you learn to temper your expectations.”

“A polite way of saying – everyone lies to kids.”

“That too, but more that you soon learn that the world you grew up believing in never really existed.”

“Very true.” There’s a slightly weighted silence, in which he feels the light touch of Harper’s thoughtful regard.

Clearly this is about race, he just wonders if it’s something Harper will ever feel comfortable touching on with him.

“I’m sure it’d be the same with me and the States. Pretty sure I’ve got most of that wrong.”

Harper’s regarding him with interest.  “You’ve never been?”

Matt shrugs. “Never had the opportunity.”

“Where you fancy seeing?”

Mat laughs. “You already know my answer.”

Harper rewards him with that smile. “I do; I just like hearing you speak.”

And as Matt, grinning ruefully, says: “All of it” he has to ask himself whether he hasn’t finally met his match.

 

**

 

When Harper eventually takes him up to his suite, Matt doesn’t allow himself to expect anything.

He’s been getting a vibe from Harper, a feeling that he has no intention of taking him to bed that day. When Harper spoke of ‘getting to know each other better’ he clearly meant exactly that.

Okay, that’s great. No, really it is, but if he doesn’t intend to fuck him he really should try harder not to get him so worked up, because at no point has the guy let up on the silent seduction; seducing Matt with his eyes, his smile, his words, yet apparently with no intention of following through

Could it be that B.L Harper is an actual fucking cocktease?

Having seen the luxury displayed in the rest of the establishment Matt isn’t fazed by the opulence of Harper’s living quarters.

Unfazed, sure; but impressed, envious? Absolutely.

What must it feel like to live like this, to take all of this for granted?

“You wanna listen to some music? Yeah, sit anywhere.” Harper makes an expansive gesture, taking in the entire suite.

Matt looks around, wondering if Harper intends to sit next to him no matter whether he sits on the two seater sofa or the big white leather couch next to the window.

He opts for the two-seater.

“Music would be nice.” And music might get Harper in the mood. Maybe Matt could use it to do some seducing of his own. Harper might be confounding a few expectations right now, but one thing Matt’s sure of is that he will not be blasting either rock or rap anytime soon.

There you go – just what he’d expected – hoped for – the smooth sexy strains of old skool r’n’b.

Harper sits beside him, the closest they’ve been since standing together, nearly on each other’s toes at the bar last night.

He smells good and close to, under natural light, his skin his flawless, eyes drawing attention as Matt suspects they always will.

Objectively they’re probably a mid brown, but the colour is rich, the lashes long and attention grabbing, and on a person with a fairer complexion they’d just be really nice eyes. It’s the contrast between the brown of his eyes coupled with the deeper brown of his complexion that’s so unusual, makes for so stunning an effect.

Matt, wanting him, stares at him, deep into his eyes, hoping he won’t have to make the next move.

Harper regards him in silence, giving back everything Matt’s sending his way, with just a little extra on top.

The music is not helping – unless it actually is.

“How come I don’t know your name?” Harper says in a tone that should really be reserved for the bedroom, not for such a mundane question.

Matt, refusing – unable - to break eye contact shrugs, not wanting to talk at all. “Maybe names aren’t that important.”

Harper’s expression doesn’t change, neither does the focus of his gaze. Matt idly muses that if any guy had ever looked at him the way Harper looks at him he’d be a married man by now…

“I think they are.”

“So, you wanna know what to call me?”

This gets the slightest of wry smiles and a flick of a glance at his mouth. “Oh I know what to call you, baby.”

And why are you not kissing me right now, he doesn’t say out loud, but surely…

Harper abruptly turns away, stretching long legs in front of him, breathing deep and steady. “But tell me what your momma calls you.”

Matt, staring at him, confused, disappointed, a hair’s breadth from just grabbing him answers without thinking: “Pillock, moron, soft lad – take your pick.”

And this startles a laugh out of the guy, effectively breaking the mood.

Harper turns back to him and his eyes are full of nothing but amusement now.

Is this what he does – talk himself out of things?

“I guess mommas are the same no matter where ya go.”

“I guess they are.” He really doesn’t want to play this game, but he’s not the one running the game – for a change.

“My momma, when she’s not mad, calls me William.”

“Mine, when she’s not mad, calls me Matthew. Everyone else calls me Matt.”

Harper extends his hand. When Matthew takes it he tightens his grip, doesn’t let go. “Pleased to meet you, Matt.”

“Likewise William.” It’s funny because though Matt knows he must surely have been aware his name was William  it had simply failed to compute. The entire world knew him as B.L Harper and when he discovered the B stood for Billy (and the L for Linwood) had decided that was his name. Why had _William_ not registered?

They sit for some time, holding hands, staring into each other’s eyes.

Matthew, however, no longer thinks this means Harper intends to take the next logical step.

But is more than willing to be proved wrong.

 

**

 

The next few days (when he can find an excuse to take time out of his work day) are spent with William; laughing with him, travelling with him, thinking about him.

William has kissed him – once – a dry brush of soft lips against his in parting, and has him wanting more, yet there’s no indication there’s more forthcoming.

He leaves for London the day after tomorrow and that will be that.

If Matt wants more then he’s going to have to make it happen.

He isn’t sure what the game is here, but it could be that William needs the other guy to seduce _him_ , make it not be him who initiates.

Matt’s no psychologist so what he thinks about all of this means less than nothing. All he knows his that if he doesn’t get to more than a kiss before William leaves he will stick a knife in some innocent passerby and won’t _that_ be fun?

 

**

 

“So you prefer to be bored out your skull.” He says this to get a rise out of him, but William’s not playing.

He considers the question. “I don’t, but I don’t find this boring. It’s restful – calming.”

And here’s the perfect opening for him to finally ask William what he does for a living. He’s aware Wiliam’s waiting for him to ask – there’s been many a time when not asking looked suspicious as fuck, yet William’s said nothing, not given his inner thoughts away by so much of as a blink – well, mostly not; there was a definite look of expectation, subtle as William tends to be, the first time they went back to his hotel, but Matt didn’t give him the satisfaction and William obviously accepted that.

Now it’s Matt who’s impatient to get things on the table since clearly he’ll be waiting till the 12th of never if he’s relying on William to take them there.

He can tell William’s a guy who likes to take the initiative, just can’t quite understand why he’s being so passive with him, though passive is entirely the wrong word…

“Sounds like you live a pretty hectic life.” He isn’t happy with himself because that’s a cheat and the last thing he wants to do is cheat. He’s always intended to come clean – well, once he understood their’s wasn’t to be the usual hit and run encounter – until he began to see how much was at stake.

Confess and everything would change.

But he can’t _not_ confess…

So before William can respond he puts a hand on his thigh, knowing that’ll stop him. He feels the taut muscle twitch under his fingers and reflexively smooths the palm of his hand over it.

There’s a heated, heavy moment of breath caught, a blinking stare into each other’s eyes before Matt removes his hand from William’s thigh, placing it on the sofa between them.

Well, he definitely hadn’t meant for that to happen, but he’ll take it.

It just makes what he intended to say even more awkward and for a moment he considers not saying it.  “Look, William, I meant to say this before, but I know who you are – recognized you straight away.” He doesn’t really want to meet his eye but how the hell could he not? How would it look for him to try to avoid his eye?

For a moment William stares at him in silence, expression giving nothing away before saying: “Homie, I know.” He makes that eloquent expansive gesture, taking everything in. “Why do you think we’re here?”

 

**

 

William wants a relationship.

He doesn’t want sex; he wants to get to know Matt so he can confirm his feeling about him.

Well, William put it more bluntly but that’s the gist of it.

“Yeah, sure I wanted to hit it – at first - but there was something about you and-“ He laughs. “When I realised you knew who I was, well that just added to the fascination, so here we are.”

Matt’s flattered, more than, but… “You don’t want to hit it anymore?”

And though he didn’t say it to get the reaction from William he’s getting not ever gonna pretend he’s sorry.

 

**

 

William later confesses that he’d planned to wine and dine him before taking him to bed, make it a special occasion, but found himself unable to resist Matt’s charms a second longer.

Again William worded it very differently, but, yeah, that’s the gist.

Matt doesn’t mind admitting that he fully expected to and would have been more than willing to bottom for him that first time and was only astonished after the fact that intercourse hadn’t been on the menu at all.

He’d had no idea sex could be so good – without penetration.

“The fuck did you get so good at that?” He doesn’t even feel the jealousy he would have expected to feel – he just wants to know how the fuck…

William, nuzzling his neck, chuckles. “Same way I can run the 100 metres in under 10 seconds; same way I can catch a ball without looking – natural talent.”

“But you still have to _practice_ , _hone_ those natural talents.”

“Well I guess you’ve just answered your own question, homie.”

Okay, maybe he’s starting to feel a _little_ jealous. “You had a lot of practice?”

“Enough.”

“Just in case you’re wondering: you’ve perfected the art. No need to keep practicing.”

He can feel William’s laughter against his neck. “Agreed. No more practice.”

“Good.” Turning, he captures his mouth in what he knows and certainly hopes comes across as a possessive as hell kiss, saying a silent thanks to all the guys who helped him perfect his art – for Matt’s benefit.

No truly – thanks.

 

 

**

 

“I don’t particularly like London.”

“I’ll come down if you like.”

“Up.”

“Eh?”

“It’s down, not up. Bristol’s north of London so we say come up, not go down. Same way you’d ‘go down south’ back home.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to forgive me for not memorisng the atlas, homie.” He tweaks Matt’s nose the way he likes to do when he thinks Matt’s being a pain.

Matt smiles. “But no, I don’t mind going down to London.”

William pulls him close. “I wanna spend time with you, baby, you know that.” He sighs a gusty, slightly resigned sigh. “Not enough time, wish we had more.”

Matt’s silent because this is a subject he simply refuses to talk about. William knows this, but will keep bringing it up.

They sit in silence for a little longer, drinking each other in, utterly at peace, and Matt wonders how the hell he ended up here, on the cusp of falling for a guy who has the capacity to break his heart into tiny pieces.

How did it happen when he knows better, when he’d vowed never to allow anyone to do this to him; never allow himself to be so vulnerable?

“I can’t believe I met you,” he says in a voice he’s well aware betrays him, lays him bare.

William strokes gentle fingers through his hair. “That’s _my_ line, baby. Moment I saw you…” He chuckles. “Never thought that was a real thing, you know? Thought it was just niggas talking shit to get women, sell records.”

Matt can’t help laughing. “Maybe it is – just because someone sings it doesn’t mean they’ve experienced it themselves, cos you’re right – it’s great for getting women and selling a shit ton of records.”

“Biggest surprise of my life is that the fucking thing is _real_.”

“Wrong time, wrong place?”

William stirs a little at that. “We can make it work, baby, we just gotta want to.” He turns Matt to face him. “ _I_ want to; how bout you?”

Matt sighs. “It’s just you’ve got such a bigger life than me, Will. There’s a chance once you get back you’ll forget this, forget what this felt like and your big life will take over, drown me out.” And he’s not saying it to get reassurance, he’s saying it because for once in his life he feels comfortable being vulnerable, actually confessing all the things he’d usually be sure to keep under wraps lest it interfere with his image.

And losing that, losing that freedom, as new as it is, as novel as it is, is going to feel a little like dying.

William tightens his embraces, but takes his time before replying. “When I was young we didn’t have much. My mum and dad split when I was 10 and it was hard because we were a tight family and not having both my parents in this nice family unit really affected me – us.  Though my dad didn’t live with us we’d still see him on a regular, but it wasn’t the same and honestly, homie, my whole world changed the day he packed his bags and left us. 

I don’t know who I was on the road to being before then, all I know is that once my safe comfortable world changed, I changed too. Nothing felt safe anymore which I guess was also about growing up, but my 10 year old self couldn’t see that – the world just felt like it had let me down and would _keep_ letting me down. So I decided to armour myself against the world, make myself bulletproof.” His laugh is self-deprecating. “Good thing 10 year olds don’t run the world right?

Thing is I think it worked. I was always good in school, and my parents encouraged all of us to keep our grades up, so I did. I was actually gonna pursue an academic career, but you know, once they know you’re good at sport things change. Personally, my momma wanted me to keep on with the studying, but my dad convinced me there was more money in the other thing – and he was right. Don’t forget I was all about staying safe, doing all I could to keep my world safe. Safety, in my teenage mind, came with money, so yeah, I was gonna make my career in sport.

Long story short – it happened for me at an early age. Right place, right time. Smiling, he gives Matt’s nose a fond tap. “Next thing I know I’m in the superbowl – making the winning catch! And things go crazy after that. Let’s just say I got my head turned and it took a while to get my feet back on the ground.

All this time I was coming to terms with being gay and playing sport. Notice I don’t mean those as two separate things. I literally mean being gay – which I had no issues coming to terms with – and playing sport. The two things just did not go together.  And that’s when I realised and came to terms with the fact that I had to make a choice between being happy as a black gay man or playing sport – couldn’t be both. I mean, baby, that I resigned myself to living this counterfeit life for another 10 – 15 years. I’d even made my own kinda peace with it. But you changed all that. Now I can see that’s no longer something I can live with.

It was fine while there’s was no-one in my life that made me question it, and the thing is if I don’t question, if I don’t question myself about what I need and want from life, then you _won’t_ be in my life. So, this life you think’s bigger than you, bigger without you in it, is no kind of life at all. If you are seriously asking yourself if I’d forget you, go back to what I had before you, please don’t. That ain’t even it, so just shelve it, homie. Ain’t even on the _menu_.”

There’s nothing Matt can say, except give William the courtesy of taking him at his word and scrub his mind of the thought, rip the doubt from his heart and accept that what he feels for William is reciprocated and won’t be going anywhere any time soon.

 

Okay, but how the heck has he fallen in love with a guy he’s only known a week?

 

**

 

He’s agreed not to see him off at the airport, basking in the afterlow of the intensity of their lovemaking, mouth still tingling with the sweetness of his skin, fingers aching to touch him again…

He didn’t know it would hurt this much.

The feeling of loss is almost nauseating, leaving him confused, bewildered.  

The loss of him feels like so much like a _physical_ malady he wouldn’t be at all surprised if he ends up in some unfortunate doctor’s surgery, struggling to explain that he knows the name of his malady; that the name of his sickness is love…

God, imagine him, imagine Matt Eagleshaw laid low by love.

All the people he’d fucked over in the past, well, they’d be in stitches right now.

And he couldn’t even blame them.

He really should have stayed away from Bristol, certainly stayed away from Bristol’s only gay bar.

Should have known fucking around with blokes would get him in trouble.

He remembers telling Liam to stick to women, which was fair since the joker didn’t know whether he was coming or going when it came to blokes, but maybe he’d have done well to follow his own fucking advice.

He has a few more days here and then it’ll be back to his life, much the way William’s flying back to his.

He can’t help thinking that they’ll be experiencing two very different things.

Since he’s taken a few liberties of late, resolves to knuckle down and give the company his best for the final few days, so when his phone rings in the middle of a meeting he doesn’t even glance at the display before shutting it off.

It’s only later when he’s alone and checks his call he sees it was William calling, but before his heart can choke him the display lights up.

It’s William - calling again.

“Hi.”

“Hi, baby. Miss you.”

“You’re still in the airport?”

“Delays. Used to it, homie, plus I ran into some fans, so they’re entertaining me. I just wanted to see your face one last time.”

Matt laughs. “Don’t say it like that; you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

“Sorry, baby.” He glances up and to his right and Mat registers, at once, the change in his demeanour. “Just wanted to say ‘Hi’ and I’ll call you when we land. Bye, homie.” Even his tone’s changed and Matt gets it, not surprised when a blond head appears in the periphery before William hastily cuts the call.

For a moment Matt isn’t sure what he’s feeling – thrilled at seeing him again; jealous that he’s with a bunch of blokes who almost certainly won’t appreciate him the way they should; annoyed that he has to put on a show for everyone but Matt; sad that he can’t even conduct his private business in public the way others can.

But the feeling he doesn’t expect is relief, relief that William’s keeping his word and will endeavour to keep trying to make this work, because apparently, try as he might, he still can’t quite believe William is his, that he won’t lose him once he gets home.

He’s an idiot, but the trouble is he has no-one to talk to about this, no one to tell him to _stop_ being an idiot.

Except, he does have someone; someone who always has his back, someone who brings out the best in him, someone he loves to death (though obviously he’s never and will never tell him that).

He can’t talk to William about any of this, but who better to talk to than his best friend?

 

 

 

 


End file.
